


Sweet

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Birthday Cake, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2126682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Himuro only leaves the batter alone for a few minutes." Himuro tries to bake a cake for Murasakibara and is only halfway successful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rawr-and-guns](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rawr-and-guns).



Himuro only leaves the batter alone for a few minutes.

He thought it would be fine. When he left the kitchen Murasakibara was sprawled across the couch, face-down and asleep as far as Himuro could tell. Usually it takes the other boy at least a half hour to go from unconscious to fully alert; Himuro calculated that he would have plenty of time to wash the flour off his hands before Murasakibara came investigating. But the couch is empty when he comes back around the corner, and he knows where he’ll find the other boy even before he comes into the kitchen and finds Murasakibara standing over the bowl of cake batter.

“ _Atsushi_ ,” he wails before he has even seen what exactly Murasakibara is doing. “I still need to  _cook_  that.”

Murasakibara doesn’t move, even when Himuro steps in and grabs for the edge of the bowl the other boy is currently dipping his fingers into. When Himuro tugs Murasakibara closes his free hand on the other side and it doesn’t budge, even when Himuro grabs at it with both hands and brings all his strength to bear.

“It’s good,” Murasakibara observes, like he hasn’t heard Himuro’s protests at all, and lifts his fingers to his mouth to suck them clean. Himuro whimpers, tries to take advantage of the other’s distraction to wrest the bowl away, but Murasakibara tightens his hold and it doesn’t move.

“You can’t eat it, it needs to be cooked,” Himuro tries to explain, as if rationality has ever stopped Murasakibara when he’s set on something.

The other boy frowns, tugs on the bowl like he’s trying to pull it away. “I’m hungry,” he offers by way of explanation, dips his fingers into the batter again with total disregard for Himuro’s half-voiced wail of protest.

“Eat something else.” He’s still not letting go, even though Murasakibara is more or less holding him upright now by his hold on the bowl. “There’s other food. This is supposed to be a  _cake_ , for  _you_ , Atsushi, there won’t be a cake at all if you eat all the batter.”

“But it’s good,” Murasakibara says again, and this time it sinks in that that’s a  _compliment_ , that Murasakibara is making the effort to tell him he did well, and Himuro’s complaint evaporates out of his head as Murasakibara pulls his fingers back out of the bowl. He’s still staring up at Murasakibara’s face, waiting for the shocked hum of pleasure to fade from his head, when the other glances at him and extends his hand.

“Here.” It’s an order in spite of the casual tone Murasakibara has adopted; his voice says he doesn’t need to bother issuing a command because he knows Himuro will obey. He’s right, too. Himuro is opening his mouth before putting together the obvious conclusion, Murasakibara’s fingers are pressing in against his tongue before he realizes where this is going and thinks of a protest. Reflex takes over, draws his tongue up against Murasakibara’s fingers; the batter  _is_  good, sweet and rich, and then Murasakibara’s gaze drops from Himuro’s eyes to his lips. His fingers slide in farther, the tips of his fingers press in against Himuro’s tongue, and Himuro can feel himself flushing but he doesn’t protest, just closes his mouth tight around Murasakibara’s fingers and sucks the last of the batter off the other boy’s skin. Murasakibara’s mouth comes open, just barely, like he’s forgetting to keep it shut, and his thumb comes down against Himuro’s cheek to brace the other boy in place.

Himuro’s hold on the bowl goes loose, his hand drops relaxed against the counter as the tug-of-war slides significantly lower on his list of current interests. He swallows the last of the batter, so the only thing in his mouth is the pressure of Murasakibara’s fingers. When he blinks Murasakibara is still staring at his mouth like he’s never seen it before, like he’s entranced by the way his fingers look in Himuro’s mouth. Himuro keeps watching Murasakibara watching him, shifts his tongue and licks deliberately against the other boy’s fingers. Murasakibara’s hand tenses, he huffs something that would be a groan in anyone else’s throat but barely passes as a sigh in his own; then he looks up, sees Himuro’s expression, and closes his mouth. His eyes go dark, his chin comes up, and Himuro recognizes the look in his eyes so the push against his lips as Murasakibara shoves his fingers in farther isn’t a surprise. He doesn’t flinch or draw back or even blink, just keeps watching the shadow in Murasakibara’s eyes and licking up over the other boy’s fingers, tipping his head to shift his angle until he can touch his tongue against palm as well as his fingers. Murasakibara slides his fingers back, draws them almost entirely free before pressing back forward, turning his hand to force Himuro’s mouth wider; Himuro obeys, whines a sound that is more appreciative than it is protest, and Murasakibara’s free hand closes on his shoulder, his fingers bracing hard at the back of Himuro’s neck and his thumb digging in against the other boy’s collarbone.

“Down,” he says, and shoves against Himuro’s shoulder and mouth at once before waiting to see if the other boy is going to move on his own. Himuro stumbles, folds more than kneels, but after a moment he gets his knees properly under him, and when he looks up Murasakibara has his chin tipped down, his hair falling loose around his face to cast his features into shadow.

Himuro doesn’t need to be told what Murasakibara wants, didn’t need to be told to kneel if he had had a few more minutes to coordinate his movements. This time he beats out Murasakibara’s order, is pulling at the edge of the other boy’s clothes to bare skin for his fingers before Murasakibara has slid his fingers free of Himuro’s mouth, before he’s reached out to shove the bowl farther back on the counter and brace himself against the support instead. The grip at Himuro’s shoulder vanishes, fingers drag roughly through his hair to push it clear of his face, and Himuro can hear Murasakibara’s breathing, louder and harder than it ever is outside of a game, even before he gets the other boy’s loose sweatpants down off his hips so he can breathe out over Murasakibara’s hardening length.

Himuro knows better than to tease. Murasakibara doesn’t like waiting for anything, victory or food or pleasure alike, and he’s rewarded immediately by a hiccup of startled reaction over his head as he replaces the pressure of Murasakibara’s fingers on his tongue with Murasakibara’s cock. The hand in his hair tightens into a fist, drags him farther forward until Himuro has to clutch at Murasakibara’s hips to maintain even minimal control over his movement. The hand in his hair pulls sharply, more childish irritation than an actual attempt to drag him forward. Himuro hums and Murasakibara lets some of the tension go; when he closes his mouth around the other boy’s length and sucks slow and deliberate the pull goes entirely, Murasakibara’s fingers relax into something close to a caress against Himuro’s hair as he comes forward again.

Himuro can feel Murasakibara going hard against his tongue, drawing hotter in response to his touch in sync with the gentleness infusing the fingers in his hair. He can’t get a good look at Murasakibara’s face; the other boy is hunched too far forward, his face is cast into shadow and Himuro can’t tip his head all the way up to see his face, but he can hear the other boy’s breathing drawing deeper and faster. On the next motion of his head Murasakibara shifts his legs, braces himself more solidly against the floor and leans back on the counter so he doesn’t have to hold himself up. His fingers are shifting idly through Himuro’s hair, tugging at the strands with more affection than aggression; Himuro keeps moving, unwilling to interrupt the unusual gentleness of Murasakibara’s touch and not needing additional guidance in this. It’s clear enough what Murasakibara wants, easy to read what he likes from the catch in his breathing and the way he’ll sometimes rock in harder. Murasakibara only ever takes an active role when he forgets to be passive, when Himuro has distracted him into clear interest. It feels like a victory every time, makes Himuro smile and purr wordless pleasure in against Murasakibara’s skin. The larger boy moves, lets go of the counter and reaches up; even angled to lean in against the support behind him he’s close enough to the ceiling to flatten his palm to the surface, brace himself in place so he doesn’t shift even when Himuro licks up over him and wins a groan of encouragement from the other boy.

Himuro can feel the thrum of anticipation just under his fingertips, tightening in Murasakibara’s muscles even as his breathing drops deeper, like he’s forcing himself to relax into the friction of Himuro’s mouth. He tightens his hold on Murasakibara’s hips, comes in farther and faster with his mouth; the other boy exhales hard, the sound loaded with expectation, and when he rocks his hips forward again he arches back, lets his head fall back so the shadow of his shoulders slides away and leaves Himuro in the light again. Himuro can hear him draw in a deep breath, long and slow and expectant, hold the air in his lungs for a moment of hesitation; then Himuro slides in again, as far as he can manage to take the other boy in his mouth, and Murasakibara moans so low Himuro can feel it humming under his skin.

“ _Muro-chin_ ,” and the nickname is warm and gentle even as the fingers holding Himuro’s hair back curl into a fist again. There’s a shudder that runs all through Murasakibara’s body, from the arm braced against the ceiling down through the line of his throat and the fluttering expectation in his stomach; Himuro keeps his eyes open to watch the ripple of satisfaction wash the tension into release as Murasakibara comes hot and bitter against the very back of his tongue.

Himuro swallows before he pulls back, slowly enough to give Murasakibara a chance to stop him if he wants. But the hand in his hair doesn’t pull, the other boy doesn’t offer any sort of vocal protest, and even when Himuro pulls Murasakibara’s clothes back into place and gets to his feet the only reaction he gets is the other boy letting his hand fall from the ceiling, tipping his chin back down so he’s looking down at Himuro through his hair again. His expression is relaxed, calm and blank as he always looks when he’s truly content, and Himuro takes a breath, and lets it out, and considers letting any chance of reciprocation go in favor of salvaging what remains of the cake batter.

Then Murasakibara’s hand lands on his hip and Himuro’s half-falling, stumbling sideways as the other boy pushes him until he runs up against the counter. Himuro barely has time to process that he  _is_  going to get his turn after all before Murasakibara’s fingers are pushing past the edge of his clothes.

“Atsushi.” It comes out as almost a protest, an apology Himuro doesn’t entirely mean. “It’s okay, you don’t have to --”

“Shut up.” Murasakibara sounds more bored than angry, but he leans in close enough Himuro has to fall back against the counter, drop all his weight back against the edge. Even then Murasakibara is close enough that Himuro can feel him breathing. “You talk too much, Muro-chin.”

Himuro laughs. “Sorry.” He opens his mouth to say more, but Murasakibara shifts his wrist, and fingers close tight around his length, and instead of words he offers a whimper. Murasakibara reaches around behind him; Himuro doesn’t realize what he’s doing until the other boy brings his fingers to his mouth again to lick another mouthful of batter off.

“There won’t be any left,” Himuro protests, though he undermines his words somewhat by the desperate way he grabs at Murasakibara’s shoulder to keep himself in place as the other boy starts to stroke over him with more force than technique.

“Make more,” Murasakibara suggests. His mouth is so close Himuro can feel the words purring over his skin even before he tips his neck to offer the line of his throat up for Murasakibara’s lips. There’s a moment of hesitation; then Murasakibara sighs, like he’s being forced into something, before his tongue drags up across Himuro’s neck. For all his incoherent protest, he doesn’t seem at all inclined to move away once he’s got his mouth against Himuro’s skin, even when the smaller boy winds his fingers into Murasakibara’s hair to hold himself mostly in place as the other boy’s hand jerks roughly over him.

It would be too much if it were someone else. Himuro is pretty such it would be too much if it were just him, but he doesn’t want to tell Murasakibara to stop, and the knowledge that it’s the other boy’s fingers clenched around him combined with the hot damp of Murasakibara licking against his throat makes it bearable, makes the sensation shoot sparks of heat up his veins instead of pain. His hand is forming a fist in Murasakibara’s hair, his fingers spasming involuntarily against the other boy’s shoulder, but Murasakibara doesn’t so much as flinch, doesn’t do anything but pull even faster. There’s the catch of teeth against Himuro’s neck, a pull as Murasakibara sucks against his skin, and when the larger boy hums vibration into Himuro’s skin Himuro shudders, jerks under Murasakibara’s touch, and lets the rush of responsive heat drown out his attention into shivering pleasure.

Murasakibara is still stroking over him when Himuro catches his breath; he’s let his hold go a little looser, but it’s still veering over into painful along with the too-much pleasure of overstimulation. Himuro sucks in a breath, chokes “ _Atsushi_ ” like he’s begging, though he’s not sure what for, and Murasakibara lets him go. He sucks once more at Himuro’s neck, hard and sharp, and then he’s pulling away, straightening to look down at the other boy’s hazy expression.

It takes Himuro a moment to collect himself, to steady his legs enough that he can trust his knees with his own weight. By the time he looks up Murasakibara has refocused on the bowl; Himuro doesn’t even bother voicing a protest this time, just laughs weakly and mentally admits defeat.

“I’ll make a new batch,” he says, reaching out to catch the edge of the bowl and offer it for Murasakibara’s use. “You can just finish it. Do you want a spoon?”

Murasakibara accepts the bowl but shakes his head at the offer of a utensil beyond his fingers. Himuro watches him draw another finger through the batter, bring it to his mouth so he can lick it clean. Murasakibara’s expression is wholly abstracted; Himuro doesn’t think he’s seeing the smaller boy at all until Himuro laughs, resigned and more amused than he ought to be by the other boy’s actions.

“You’re cute,” he says, recklessly affectionate in the glow of pleasure still washing through his veins.

Murasakibara doesn’t growl, doesn’t even frown. He just watches Himuro’s expression while he licks the last of the batter off his hand, reaches down to catch more.

“You talk too much,” he says, and Himuro laughs, and opens his mouth for the other boy’s fingers.


End file.
